Free Blue Madonna by James R. Benn Page B

us and cracked him over the head.
    Nick swung around at the sound as I leapt on the table and lunged at him as he tried to reach for his gun, coming up with nothing but a fistful of apron before I connected. He staggered, a dull look on his face, but stayed upright, his hand reaching for a pocket he couldn’t quite find. I gave him one more hit, a gentle rap, so maybe he’d wake up at some point. These guys weren’t angels, but I didn’t want to play the devil myself.
    He fell forward on his knees. I rolled him over and took the Bulldog. I tied his hands with the apron strings and then checked on Willie. He was still breathing, but had a helluva lump on his head. I couldn’t find anything to tie him with and didn’t want to take the time to search. I took two chairs and set them on top of his torso, figuring he’d make a racket if he tried to get up. If Blake were here, I wouldn’t need that much time anyway.
    I bolted from the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time, billy club in one hand and the Bulldog in the other. I came to a wide hallway off the landing, with one door on the right and two on the left. The right side was where I’d seen the boarded windows, so I made for that door. As quiet as I tried to be, my boots seemed to thunder against the hardwood floor. One bare bulb lit the hall, casting shadows where wallpaper peeled from the plasterboard. I stuffed the club into my belt; paint chips flaked off the door where I laid my hand against it. I tried the handle. Locked.
    â€œDonald Blake?” I heard a stumble from inside. Maybe he was tied up, trying to make for the door. I rattled the handle again, but it felt solid, probably a deadbolt. I stepped back, studying the door. It was as old as the house, the wood brittle and dry. Only rookies tried to force a door at the lock. I reared back and aimed a kick above the bottom hinge. Wood splintered, and the door caved in. I moved back and threw my shoulder against it, hoping to burst the top hinge.
    It worked. I went down with the door, falling onto cracked panels and rolling free, holding onto the Bulldog’s small grip as best I could. I saw a blurred figure in the darkened room, his arm extended.
    It was a gun.
    I rolled again and saw his hand waver. He fired, and the flash was blinding in the cramped space. I squeezed off two rounds in his direction and then two more as he collapsed into the corner. I got up on my knees and scrambled over to him, knocking the .38 revolver from his hand.
    It didn’t matter. Three holes in his chest had pretty much neutralized the threat.
    â€œWho are you?”
    I nearly jumped out of my skin. I spun around and aimed the Bulldog at a form huddled against the wall.
    â€œDon’t shoot!”
    He’d already been shot. Blood gushed from his shoulder and decorated the wall behind him. His hands and feet were tied. His mouth was open, drawing in gasps of air, disbelief rampant on his face. Getting shot was always such a surprise.
    I’d misjudged the shooter. He hadn’t been going for me; he’d been trying to get a bead on Donald, who was behind me. He was going to put Donald down like a dog.
    â€œAre you Donald Blake?” He nodded, his eyes studying the wound. It looked bad, but not the kind of bad where you end up six feet under. “Here,” I said, grabbing a shirt from a pile of clothes on the floor and pressing it against his shoulder. “Hold this. Help is on the way.”

Chapter Eight
    The sounds of shattering and splintering wood announced Big Mike’s arrival at the front door with his sledgehammer. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and I called out.
    â€œIn here! The other rooms haven’t been checked.” I doubted anybody was lying in wait; another captive was far more likely.
    â€œAll clear,” Kaz announced as he entered the room, his Webley at the ready, his eyes scanning the carnage. “My God, Billy, did you have to shoot